


All of These Things and More

by ZoeBug



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: -Ish, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Boot Worship, Clothed Sex, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Finger Sucking, Hair-pulling, I mean they're high heels but still, Lingerie, Me waxing poetic about Dom/sub dynamics as always, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Service Submission, Shoe Kink, Subspace, inquiring kinky minds want to know, sort of, why is there a Boot Worship tag but not a Heels Worship tag???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:03:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6894802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeBug/pseuds/ZoeBug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a few minutes, she'll have a cup of tea in her hands and a beautiful boy kneeling at her feet.</p><p>Mikasa closes her eyes, head tilted back against the headrest, and smiles. </p><p>What more could a girl ask for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All of These Things and More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [volti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/volti/gifts).



> Some JeanKasa power dynamics for my fantastic QPP Sahar - Happy Birthday, you cutie! I hope you enjoy, sorry for the lateness. You're one of the smartest, kindest, funniest, most talented, most compassionate people I've ever met and it's an honor to be your partner!
> 
> I can't believe it took me this long to write some JeanKasa. Hopefully this helps redeem me :') The POV shifts a few times back and forth between the two because I really wanted to show their relationship from both angles.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“ _It's a question of lust, It's a question of trust_

_It's a question of not letting what we've built up, Crumble to dust_

_It is all of these things and more_

_That keep us together_ "

"A Question of Lust" by Depeche Mode

 

* * *

 

Jean takes a sip of his drink and tugs loosely at his tie, watching Mikasa from across the room.

She touches the upper arm of the man beside her in one of the many expensive suits he’s seen tonight, obviously excusing herself from conversation. Mikasa’s pale skin is a stark contrast to the dark fabric of the suit beneath her touch and Jean swallows.

It’s not that Jean doesn’t enjoy the galas and dinners and events Mikasa occasionally brings him to.

He’s more than happy to accompany her, to see her complimented on her genius as a fashion designer, to see her glide among work connections with her arm through his― _showing him off to them_ , part of Jean thinks dizzily.

But he would be lying if he didn’t miss the loss of attention when her dark eyes were turned on these powerful or talented or beautiful people she works with.

But when Mikasa turns turns away from the fellow attendees of this latest banquet and begins to stride back toward Jean where he is leaning against one of the tables, something loosens in him.

There’s something of a relieved smile flitting across her face when she sees him and it warms Jean to see it. He blinks slowly with the warmth that settles in his chest at that soft, pleased look that means she finds comfort in his presence. The one that means she pleased to find him waiting for her―waiting to be useful to her.

She finally reaches him, coolly sliding one arm through his as if he were to guide her, her body lithe and so graceful as she learns to speak softly in his ear.

“I think it’s time we be getting home now, no?”

Her tone is that of someone holding a delicious secret just out of reach and as smooth as silk. Jean lets out a breath, straightening his arm so she can properly grab hold of it.

“Of course, Miss,” he replies nodding his head, unable to help a smile of his own (albeit, his probably leans more towards puppy dog than he’d intended.)

As they head toward the exit, arm in arm, Jean knows it looks to be that _he_ is the one escorting _her_. But the two of them both know the reality, can feel Mikasa’s grip is certain and strong around his arm confirming what’s to come and Jean can see Mikasa’s smile out of the corner of his eye.

It brings a prickle of heat rising beneath his collar.

“Did you have a good time tonight, Miss?” Jean asks as they pass through the doors and out into the open night air. Jean’s voice is the only thing besides the distant chatter of the party and Mikasa’s heels clicking on the pathway to the parking lot.

Mikasa makes a sound halfway between surprised and pleased, as if she wasn’t expecting him to ask.

“I did. Thank you for accompanying me, Jean,” she sighs, squeezing his arm. “It gets a bit tiresome after a while.”

“Glad I could help,” Jean replies as if that was something he could resist: doing things for her. Like it’s not something he craves when she’s away.

Mikasa hums approvingly as they approach the car.

“Keys, please.”

Jean hands them to her silently, waiting for the tell-tale click of the automatic locks before he climbs into the passenger’s seat.

He can’t fucking wait.

 

 

 

There’s about a foot of empty space between them, filled with nothing but the quiet hum of the car and the minuscule sounds of Jean’s fingernails against the edges of the seat and the tension drawn taut and near crackling with anticipation.

There's the soft sound of Jean shifting his weight again and Mikasa doesn't take her eyes from the road before her, simply presses her lips together in a small smile. She doesn't need to look―she can imagine what he looks like.

He’s still dressed up in that beautiful suit the dark kind of blue that one can't tell if it's actually grey, clinging to his lithe limbs. He’ll be leaning back against the seat, his legs parted unconsciously, a flush creeping up beneath the collar of his shirt where his tie keeps it pressed.

Mikasa lets out a quiet breath at the images flooding her mind.

The sound of Jean’s fingernails against the faux leather of her seats comes again, sharp and distinct in the silence, and it sets something hot bubbling between Mikasa’s ribs because it’s a sound that means Jean’s trying his best to keep still. To keep his hands down at his sides like he’s meant to.

And oh, Mikasa loves when he gets squirmy.

The anticipation is electric.

The light before her flicks red and Mikasa rolls to a stop, taking one slender hand off the wheel. Without turning her eyes from where they gaze straight forward through the windshield out at the dark concrete, she slides it―soft and gentle but with a promising firmness―over Jean’s thigh.

She hears his breath catch.

Jean’s thigh is warm and solid through the thin fabric of his trousers and she can feel the way he tenses all over at her touch.

His hips shift upwards into her touch but she freezes her fingers in response. Jean’s exhale stutters on its way out.

“Still, Jean.” Her voice is quiet and calm but commanding. The soft _thud_ of Jean’s head hitting the headrest behind him followed by his soft groan has the corners of her lips pulling up.

“Yes, Miss.” The words are more breath than voice. Good, good Jean.

She lets out a pleased exhale at his words and Mikasa slides her fingers further over Jean’s thigh and brushes lightly over his zip. The touch is gentle and more a hint of pressure than anything, but the way she can feel Jean begin to harden through his pants at these simple touches has something rising in her chest.

She hears the scratching of fingernails at the edges of his seat but he doesn’t move again.

“Good boy,” Mikasa praises and this time her voice is lower, colored with more dark, warm approval. Her hand continues to move up and down over his crotch, soft almost pressure-less movements that tease through the thin material. “You were so good for me during the party.”

The light turns green and Mikasa withdraws her hand, placing it back on the steering wheel. Jean whines softly at the loss of contact.

She chances a look over at him and sucks in a short breath at the sight. He’s every bit the picture she’d imagined earlier. From his hands in white-knuckled grips on the edges of the seat to keep them there, to the hard line of his cock tenting his trousers between where his legs are spread wantonly: open for her perusal or access. His head is tilted back against the headrest, his cheeks flushed and his eyes hazy.

Mikasa’s grip around the steering wheel flexes.

“Good, Jean,” she breathes, the sound coming out a bit more breathless than she intended. “Do you know what I was thinking about all night? While I was talking to all those designers and investors?”

Jean swallows and shakes his head when she glances over to look at him.

“I was thinking about how I couldn’t wait to get you home. To get you back on your knees where you belong.” Jean punches out a breathy sound, his neck arching even more.

“Yes," he whispers. “Yes, yes, yes…”

Another maddening stoplight turns red and Mikasa has to stop, waiting. She slides her hand back over the tenting in Jean’s pants and listens to the way his breathing hitches and to the sounds he makes for her.

“Do you know how hard it was not to lead you around by your tie all night?”

“Mistress…” Jean whimpers when she retracts her hand again.

“Shh,” Mikasa quiets him, turning―finally, _finally―_ onto their road. She chuckles. “Patience, pet. We’re nearly home.”

The car has barely just parked in the garage when Mikasa looks over at Jean's high, tight: "Mistress-"

Mikasa can't help an amused quirk of her lips at the way he's nearly vibrating in his seat.

"Yes, you can go inside, Jean." Jean's exhale of relief is loud and he’s almost blurring in his hurry to rush into the house. “Don’t remove any clothing without my permission.”

Mikasa calls after him, rolling her eyes fondly when he’s out of sight.

“What am I to do with that boy?” She laughs softly to herself as she takes her time gathering her bag and shawl from the car and locking up the garage.

Mikasa enters through the kitchen door that opens in from the garage, taking her time to savor the slightly heady sensation of control that settles around her with every step. She hangs her shawl up in the closet but leaves everything else―her dress and her heels―in place as she rounds the half wall that separates the kitchen from the living room.

Jean is there, kneeling in front of her favorite arm chair, arms crossed behind his back and eyes trained on the carpet before him.

Even though he’d obeyed her orders and remains completely dressed, he looks vulnerable and naked in a way that makes Mikasa’s gaze sharpen.

 _Oh, good boy, Jean._ The words flood her mind at the sight.

“Welcome home, Mistress,” Jean says, not looking up at her but smiling warmly as he speaks and at that Mikasa feels like she could be walking through clouds on Mt. Olympus rather than striding over to him across her living room.

“Thank you, Jean,” Mikasa replies, placing her hand softly atop his head and ignoring, for now, how he leans into the touch the smallest bit.

She stands before him, gently running her fingers through the soft, longer strands at the top of his head, a surge of affection growing in her chest at the warmth of him beneath her hand. Mikasa trails her fingertips down from his hair to graze along his cheek. Jean, eyes half lidded and already pliant-looking, simply tilts his head at her every movement to give her better access. She smiles as her fingers reach the soft pink curves of his lips and he parts them unconsciously at the touch.

“Open,” she says and Jean does so, parting his lips further for her to slip her middle and ring fingers into his hot, wet mouth. He laves his tongue along the lines of her fingers, pressing it into the sensitive joints of her knuckles, sucking softly around them.

He lets out a sigh around her fingers, heated but also content as his eyes slipping closed.

“Good. That’s good, Jean,” she murmurs, her other hand coming to rest gently at the back of his head. After a moment of watching him, Mikasa pulls her hand back. Jean’s eyes open slowly, as if he’s half-drunk, breathing a little harder than before.

“Miss…” he breathes.

Jean is different from other submissives Mikasa has been with over the years.

She knows Jean’s particular style of submission isn’t unique by a long shot―the world of kink is extraordinarily wide and deep, after all―but she’s never personally experienced someone quite like him before. While some subs she’d been with before had been mouthy, striving to push her into putting them down hard, others had wanted her to cruel and unrelenting and degrading, and others had wanted other things still. And all of that is fine and good and healthy variations of sexuality when negotiated and consensual, but Jean is… different.

It’s as if, when they scene, Jean seems lost without her. And the further he slips into subspace, the further she pushes, the further his desire to function autonomously recedes and the more he gives himself over to her will entirely.

Other Dominants perhaps wouldn’t enjoy what they might deem Jean’s “lack of initiative” when submitting, but Mikasa doesn’t see it that way. She sees it as Jean growing more and more pliable by the moment, eventually giving even forethought and preference over to her control.

It’s beautiful to watch, beautiful to listen to: the way he looks at her―when she allows him to―like a lighthouse in a storm or the way he reaches for her like he’s teetering on a cliff’s edge.

God, he’s so… vulnerable.

And of every look she’s seen on Jean over the year and a half they’ve had their power exchange negotiated and firmly in place―smugness, triumph, shame, joy, panic, regret, admiration - vulnerability is one of her absolute favorites.

Mikasa leans down to slide her fingers beneath the lapels of Jean’s suit jacket.

“Arms out, please.”

Jean complies, his eyelids dipping closed. Mikasa carefully shrugs his jacket free of his shoulder and, with dexterous fingers that savor the bob of his adam’s apple beneath them as she loosens his tie, tugs the slip of fabric out from around his neck with a quiet zip of sound.

Mikasa folds Jean’s jacket over her arm with his tie hanging over atop it as she stands up once more. She fingers the silken material of Jean’s tie for a moment, deliberating, before speaking.

“I think I’d like a cup of tea, Jean,” she says, glancing down at him considering. “Green with one sugar.”

Jean lets out a pleased sigh at her words and she watches his head loll the slightest bit.

“Of course, Miss.”

Mikasa waits for a beat, smiling when Jean makes no move to get to his feet.

“You may stand. Get my tea, please.”

Jean nods, slowly and a bit shakily climbing to his feet, his head tilted down, still not looking at her and nods.

Mikasa stands, watching Jean disappear into the short hallway that leads to the kitchen, admiring his broad shoulders and vulnerable nape of his neck. Letting out a deep exhale Mikasa savors the feeling of this, the relaxation, the comfort of knowing she has such control here.

Draping Jean’s jacket and tie over the back of another chair, she moves to settle herself in the armchair. She relaxes into the cushions, leaning her head back and crossing her legs, arms settled comfortably on the armrests on either side.

In a few minutes, she’ll have a cup of tea in her hands and a beautiful boy kneeling at her feet.

Mikasa closes her eyes, head tilted back against the headrest, and smiles.

What more could a girl ask for?

Mikasa sighs loudly, contentedly, and leans further back into the armchair.

 

 

 

The tea is warm and earthy and Jean is back on his knees, beside the armchair this time, so Mikasa can reach out with the hand not holding her tea and absently brush her fingertips along Jean’s jawline and cheekbone and through the edges of his hair she can reach.

His skin is warm where she can reach it. Jean’s skin is fair but not nearly as fair as her own, so it’s even more of a victory for her to pull a visible blush to the surface of any part of him because of it.

She rolls her head to the side to study him lazily, see the minuscule ways he leans toward her light touches, arms crossed behind his back, eyes closed. Mikasa hums in approval, more to herself than to Jean, but she knows he hears it.

“My good boy,” Mikasa muses, taking another sip from her mug, fingertips still trailing lazily over Jean’s cheek. Jean wets his lips, letting out an exhale at her words. “So pretty on your knees for me. So good, there for me to just admire if I like.”

She almost drawls the word _admire_ with a low, lazy kind of heat and Jean shivers. His head barely moves but she recognizes the nod he’s giving. Mikasa stills the aimless movements of her fingers for a moment, letting out a soft noise of consideration as she regards him.

"Although…” she starts, sitting up a bit, “I think I might want your shirt off now. Buttons, starting at the top.”

Jean swallows, and in the quiet of the living room with nothing but the ticking of the clock on the far wall and the minute sounds of Mikasa taking another sip of tea it’s more than audible.

“Yes, Miss.” Jean’s voice is quiet and raspy from disuse. His arms unclasp from where he had been holding them still behind his back and come up to begin undoing the buttons of his shirt. Jean’s hands are trembling a bit and his eyelids are drooping so low she can’t tell if his eyes are closed or simply hooded with the headspace that he’s slipping into as the night continues.

Jean fumbles with the second and third button, his hands shaking and his breath a little too fast for her liking this early in the night.

" _Slow,_ Jean,” Mikasa says. Her voice is quiet but the weight she puts on the first word and the space between it and his name have it spreading through the beautiful tension between them like ink into clear water. Jean nods in a little jerk of his head and his fingers begin to move once more, slower and with more deliberateness. The buttons slip free of their loops easier now as he moves in the line down his chest. “Good.”

Jean’s fingers pause at the low praise and Mikasa just watches Jean finish undoing the buttons, his shirt hanging open over his bare chest. Mikasa lets out an approving little hum at the sight.

But Jean’s hands hover uncertainly in the air, task having been completed but no further directions given.

And this is where Jean’s particular brand of submission is make or break for some Doms, Mikasa supposes.

Jean had told her, during their months of ongoing negotiation at the beginning, all about it. With cheeks flushed in a combination of shame and anxious anticipation―so, so bravely honest, Mikasa had thought watching him across her kitchen table―he'd told her about the ways past Doms had commented on these particular quirks of his in subspace that had made him insecure and sensitive about them.

But to Mikasa it sends a flare of something like heat and possessiveness flaring in her chest. Because, to her, Jean like this is a single point of glowing light in a shadowy room, a source of something vital and hot and burning. The first time she had looked at him, lost in subspace and hitching on a gap in commands, the concept had entered her mind and she had been lost to it.

 _Even with this,_  she’d thought, breath catching in her chest. _Even in something as small as this―as the specific order in which to undress―he’s giving himself over to me. He needs my control and my direction._

Jean had been flushed and panting breathless half formed pleas and Mikasa had wanted it― _all_ of it―with such a fierce intensity it had shaken her to the core.

 _From the largest motions to the smallest of actions, he’s giving it all to me―letting me take even those from him_.

And, God, Mikasa doesn’t know how anyone could find something like that trying rather than gut-wrenchingly important, watching Jean take in a deep breath, hands twitching where they hover in the air, frozen and waiting for Mikasa’s word.

She’s almost certain the warmth now radiating through her core isn’t from the tea.

“Off the rest of the way,” Mikasa says, watching Jean’s shoulders loosen the slightest bit at the stability of direction. “Place it on the chair next to you with your jacket, please.”

Jean does so, neither eyes nor knees leaving the floor. Mikasa exhales a breathy praise, shifting in her chair as she sets her nearly empty tea mug on the coffee table beside her.

“Come around in front of me, please,” she says and pauses for only a moment of consideration before adding, feeling a heated smile begin to tug at her lips. “Oh. And crawl.”

Mikasa watches him over the armrest and then down the length of her own body, still in her evening gown with intricate, beautiful high heels still on her feet beyond her crossed ankles as he obeys.

Regardless of how out of it she can tell Jean is already, he moves languidly on hands and knees like some sort of jungle cat and Mikasa watches with heated gaze as his muscles shift beneath his skin with every movement. The contrast of his flushed, bare chest and hair disheveled from her trailing fingers to the beautifully cut formal suit pants still clinging to his thin legs has her licking her lips.

“Look at you…” Mikasa breathes, mouth curved into a possessive half-grin. “My beautiful boy, so good for me.”

Jean’s body jerks a little at the praise as he’s settling in at her feet. He squeezes his eyes shut and draws his bottom lip between his teeth, punching out a harsh exhale. His head tips to the side a bit, seeming to sway a little with the sensation.

“Just- Just wanna-” he murmurs, words soft and slightly slurred but so low and husky. “Wanna be good for you, Mistress.”

Mikasa runs her tongue along the top row of her teeth, lips parted the slightest bit, stopping to lick along the point of her canine. She sits up more to get a better look, heat pooling in her center.

“I want your mouth on my shoes,” Mikasa whispers, low and dark. “Wanna see your tongue drag along my pretty, pretty heels, get them all wet with spit, down on your knees moaning against them like it’s everything you’ve ever wanted.”

The rise and fall of Jean’s chest quickens and she sees his eyes zero in on her shiny black heels, sharpening before seeming to blur as he lets out a broken little whine.

“But it already is, isn’t it, filthy boy?” Mikasa murmurs, reaching forward for a moment to run her fingers softly through Jean’s hair. He goes almost boneless at the motion, letting her touch move his head and arch his neck so prettily―so _pliant_ to even her slightest influence. “Mmm, thought so.”

“Please,” Jean whispers, worrying his lower lip between his teeth before releasing it in a heated, almost desperate exhale. “Mistress.”

“Go on, then,” Mikasa muses, sitting back in the chair, hands settling on each armrest once more. “You can use your hands.”

Jean surges forward towards her, groaning raggedly, but when his hand slides along the back of her calf it’s surprisingly gentle, bending her knee and straightening her leg so the elegant arch of her ankle curving into the black lines of her shoes is close enough.

He lowers his mouth to the material, trailing wet, open mouthed kisses along the arch of the toe. Jean is panting, Mikasa can hear him. He licks a long stripe with the flat of his tongue along the side of her heel, exhaling against it in a long “ _ahhhhh_ ” with nothing now to catch the sound between his chest and the air.

Mikasa feels like there is a fire flaring beneath her sternum at the blush that blooms across Jean’s cheekbones and the way he leaves spit-slick trails along the material of her heels. He’s half dressed and flushed and kneeling at her feet mouthing along her high heels that make her feel powerful and dangerous and sexy and it’s sending thrill after thrill shooting up her spine.

She can see, between Jean’s spread legs, the way those tight suit pants are tenting, his erection straining against the fabric and another wave of heat flares in her chest at the way Jean doesn’t even seem to register his own need in the wake of Mikasa’s demands. As if it's ingrained in Jean so deeply in his makeup, that her orders are absolute and her slightest whims take precedent over any need he might have that he doesn’t even realize he’s hard and straining what must be uncomfortably against his pants.

“That’s it. Good boy, Jean,” Mikasa sighs and Jean lets out another moan against her other shoe, having switched at her raising her left leg in insistence. When he pulls his head backwards to catch a ragged breath and relocate his mouth or turn her heel for a different angle, strands of saliva cling and stretch between his lips and the material making such a lewd, debauched picture Mikasa lets out a heated breath she has to try very hard not to let turn into a full moan. “So good for me. Have you even noticed? How hard you are for me just from kissing my shoes.”

Jean shudders and groans against the black material of her heel, breath coming in hitched little pants for a moment. His tongue freezes for a moment, mid-stroke around the curve where the back cradling her foot meets the thin heel and she can tell in a flashing moment that he’s trying hard not to rock his hips upwards.

“Hips still,” she commands, voice harder with an edge of steel.

“Yes,” Jean hisses out, lips brushing along her shoe as he says it, almost pained. “Yes, I- yes, Mistress.”

Mikasa tugs her calf gently out of Jean’s palm where he’d been supporting the weight of her leg and lifts it, Jean waiting with his lips still parted and gaze hazy. Jesus, his lips are kiss-swollen and red, shiny with spit, and Mikasa shifts at the surge of heat that shoots between her legs.

She lifts her heel, and gently presses the small base of the heel against Jean’s slick bottom lip.

“Open, Jean.” Jean’s eyes _roll back_ at that and he lets out a ragged moan, his jaw dropping open and Mikasa slides the heel of her right shoe between his lips. “Arms behind your back.” She pauses, taking a breath, before adding another low, breathy word. “Suck.”

Her voice is heated and beginning to sound a big ragged herself at the sight of Jean’s kiss-reddened lips closing around the heel of her shoe, eyes fluttering. She admires the way his biceps flex when he holds his own arms behind his back like this.

Jean’s expression is blissed out, eyes still closed, and he takes the non-verbal suggestion of the slight motion of Mikasa’s shoe to begin bobbing shallowly on the heel, his lips sliding over it. She never pushes far enough that the rigid, dangerous point or edges could damage the fragile skin of Jean’s mouth. But the depth doesn’t matter to either of them it seems like; the slow, shallow movement turns the tension between them syrupy and thick and the drag of her heel across his lips torturous and beautiful.

“Look so good like this, Jean, God,” Mikasa praises after a moment, gently tugging her heel free of his lips. Jean lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously close to a whine and that dark, amused smile tugs at Mikasa’s lips again. “My pretty boy letting me _mess him up_.”

The last three words, she stretches out, punctuating as she leans forward toward him. Her fingers slip under his chin―still a little slick with spit―and tips his face upwards.

“Look at me, pet,” Mikasa nearly purrs and Jean’s hazy eyes finally lift to hers and Mikasa can’t help her lips parting at the expression now lighting up Jean’s face.

Reverence. There’s no other word to describe it. His face is one of worshipful admiration and adoration and he’s looking up at her with subspace-clouded eyes like she is… everything.

Mikasa lets out a slow breath, staring down at Jean like she wants to devour him.

“You’re so far under, aren’t you, pretty thing?” Mikasa whispers, gaze roving over Jean’s face, tilted upwards to hers still as her fingers hold him there. Jean blinks slowly and bites his lower lip, nodding a little.

“Yes…” he rasps, eyelids fluttering. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Love you like this,” Mikasa praises, her other hand rising to slide along his cheekbone adoringly. He leans into the touch just a little. “So open and pliant for me.”

Mikasa runs her fingers once more along the line of Jean’s jaw before dropping her hands and leaning back. She watches Jean’s chest expand as he takes a long, steadying breath.

“Take my shoes off for me, please. Set them beside my chair,” Mikasa says. Jean’s fingers are a bit slow but they don’t shake as they had earlier and it’s wonderful, Mikasa thinks, to sit back for a moment and watch him do this simple act, to gently slide her shoes from her feet and set them aside.

The low light of the single floor lamp sets the space around them alight with an intimate glow. It catches in the dilated pupils of Jean’s eyes by the time Mikasa’s gotten him down to just his tight black boxer briefs and down on his knees at the foot of the chair once more it’s shining off his lips in the wake of an unconscious drag of his tongue.

As Mikasa stands up for the first time since they’re arrived home, she thinks errantly that Jean almost looks as if he himself is glowing―like something inside of him is lighting him up. She smiles down at him fondly, leaning down the slightest bit once more to gently slide her fingers beneath his chin and tilt his gaze up to meet hers. It’s fucked out, his pupils blown wide and he’s still gazing at her with that wondering, worshiping look.

“You’re going to watch me,” she says softly, almost a whisper. It’s almost visible, the way Jean’s eyes swim a little, in how he has to swallow before he nods and croaks out a hoarse response.

“Yes.”

She releases his chin but Jean dutifully keeps his head tilted up as Mikasa reaches behind her and in the near quiet, she knows Jean can hear the slow tooth-by-tooth the drag of the zipper as she pulls it down the back of her dress. Sleeveless as it was, Mikasa then simply rocks her hips slowly from side to side and the slippery material of her black dress slithers down the length of her body of its own accord to pool around her bare feet.

She hears Jean’s breath hitch as she steps out of it and can’t hold back the smirk that tugs at her lips at the sound. Gathering the dress from the floor, she tosses it over the back of her chair and stands once more staring down at Jean who looks like he might be either dead or currently in the process of dying.

Mikasa knows the effect these have on Jean, this pair of black lace panties that are nothing _but_ that: lace. They're matched with a strapless bra that has the same elegant curls of black lace splayed over the silky cups. Nothing sets off her pale skin like black and nothing sets off her hunger like the way Jean looks at her in moments like this.

“M-Mistress, I-” Jean almost seems to choke on the word, like he loses his thought as soon as he can summon up the concentration to verbalize it.

“Shh,” Mikasa hushes, taking a half step forward to trail her fingertips across Jean’s cheekbone. “Hush, pet. You’re all right.” Jean sighs at her touch and nods distractedly.

“Thank you," he murmurs, his eyelids fluttering.

 

 

 

Jean revels in the feeling of Mikasa’s skin beneath his lips. He starts at her ankles, like she’d asked, sighing against the muscles shifting beneath his lips, how warm her skin is, how he can always _feel_ her above him in moments like this, powerful and enraptured and-

Jean lets out a groan as he kisses up along her shin, heaving in a breath, almost wishing Mikasa would slide her hand down into his hair. He doesn’t really want her to tug - he doesn’t really _want_ to do anything right now, all the want in him has long been given over and _God_ it feels good―he simply longs for the gripping security her fingers in his hair would give.

“Mmm... Mi- _haa_ … Mistress.” It takes him a few breaths to get the word out. Jean’s thoughts are like smoke drifting slowly away across the still, glassy surface of a lake. They come as concepts, as base things that cannot form themselves into things so complex as words.

“Good, Jean,” he hears her murmur from above him and- _yes,_ there are those blessed fingers, long and beautiful and elegant and so deceptively strong in his hair. They curl into the strands just hard enough for him to _know_ they’re there―to not be able to forget―and Jean lets out a quiet whine at the sensation. “You’re being so good for me.”

Her voice is low and silk smooth and her words are those he craves, wants to hear above all else. It’s that approval, that acknowledgement that he needs.

And it’s a complicated thing, this. Because it’s not her approval or acknowledgement of him or his performance that he desires, really. In fact he doesn’t want that at all because in his head, in this space, it isn't about him. The opposite.

It’s not that he needs to know he’s pleasing Mikasa, but simply that she _is_ pleased. Because in that, he is eroded away, his world narrowed to nothing but Mikasa―to his Mistress―and to the tone of her voice and the warmth of her body and _her_.

He pants out a breath against the curves of her kneecap and into the shallow dips beside it, kissing and licking and sliding his cheeks along the skin.

And it feels like the universe settling into itself, with her above him like this.

It is calm and eternal and unimaginable in its magnitude like the orbit of planets around the sun. Everything is small and temporary―just insignificant specks against the weightless black and there is only her luminosity, her overpowering gravity, and Jean is left to simply… drift.

“My good, good boy,” she’s whispering and it takes a moment for her words to reach Jean, for his mind to translate and wring meaning from the sounds. “Down at my feet. On your knees. Back where you’re meant to be, isn’t that right?”

And Jean can’t help letting out a ragged sigh at the words, at the sensation of those fingers tugging in his hair, urging his mouth higher up her bare thigh. _Fuck_ , she’s so _warm_ here―the places where his lips make contact hot and burning like there’s a fire beneath her skin.

“Mhm.” Mikasa answers for him in a soft sigh at the feeling of his lips and he breathes in those pleased sounds like oxygen. “Love that pretty mouth of yours, Jean.”

His breath stutters out through his nose, fingers tightening reflexively where they’re gripped around his opposite wrist behind his back. And, fuck, feeling them there reminds him of why they’re there: because Mikasa wants his mouth right now, not his hands.

Because he is so completely and utterly _Mikasa’s._ And that fact shoots through him like a lightning bolt when she speaks again, low and amused and hungry, her fingers tightening and this time actually _dragging_ his face between her legs.

“Want your mouth.” Her words are a rush of air and _God_ the lace of her panties is thin enough that it almost feels like there’s already nothing between his parted lips and the wet heat of her. He groans against her, deep from within his chest and somewhere in the back of his mind―the place inhabited by far away unimportant things―he notices he’s straining painfully against his briefs, he’s so hard, soaking the fabric through.

He parts his lips at the gentle movements of her hands, gripping in his hair and angling the tilt of his jaw and he’s licking, mouthing through soaked fabric and the high, breathy sound she makes consume Jean’s mind.

The warm strength of her thighs is something he can feel where she’s parted them even further and picker her feet up, placing them up on the cushion of the chair so the angles better. They close off the world even further as Jean licks over her, the taste of her spreading through his mouth and the lace dragging deliciously over his tongue, blocking out more light and sound and _shit_ she knows exactly how to keep narrowing his world further and further, enveloping him with her presence and her body and her voice.

“Yeah… yeah…” Mikasa lets out tiny breathy utterances as she starts rocking her hips minutely against Jean’s mouth, matching the movements to the small pushes of her fingers, moving and urging him exactly at the speed she wants and Jean is _lost_ in it.

It’s not long before she lets out a long breath and pulls him back enough to wiggle the lace off her hips and down off her legs―with Jean leaned back on his heels panting and dazed enough that the motions almost blur to him in the low light―before lying back into the chair once more.

Mikasa groans and Jean echoes the sound when she drags his mouth back down and he tries so hard to focus on the speed and consistency of his tongue. Because he feels light―weightless―and like there are sparks of warm " _yesyesyes_ "s rising to bubble just under the surface of his skin. Mikasa’s fingers clench and unclench in his hair and the skitters of pain across his scalp are fantastic, those strong hands pushing him one way or another, setting the rhythm of his tongue and lips against the rocking of her hips.

Distantly, Jean can feel the way everything from his cheekbones down chin is soaked and shining with her wetness and he drags harsh breaths through his nose, can’t seem to keep his eyelids open as he flicks at her clit with his tongue where she’d shoved him suddenly.

“Right there, yeah… Yeah- Jean, so good, feel so good, so good for me.” She’s muttering and gasping and her voice rasps through the words as Jean hears the drag against the chair’s cushion as she bends her head back.

And yes, yes, yes, all hers―all _hers_. Jean feels like he could kneel here between her strong thighs with her ankles now resting over his shoulder blades, her fingers pressing him against her, taking her pleasure from him. Because it’s hers to take, _all_ of it…

Mikasa’s voice is increasing in pitch, the moans and gasps getting breathier with every undulation of her hips and Jean feels breathless with it, with the recognition of her impending orgasm because that’s what he’s here for: to make her happy, God it’s all he’s ever wanted just to make her _happy_ -

Mikasa comes shuddering against his lips in a stream of loud, breathy “ _ah- ah- ah_ ”s and “ _Je- Jean_ ”s and spasmodic clenches of her fingers in his hair and Jean feels like he could almost come himself at the rush of pride and happiness and arousal that surges through him at that.

At first he doesn’t even realize that the moment Mikasa’s tugged him back more than an inch, he’s gasping slurred, barely intelligible repetitions of “ _Thank you, thankyouthankyou, thank you_ …”

 

 

 

Mikasa makes Jean bring her off two more times with his mouth before she finally urges him gently backwards to rest against his heels once more. It takes her a second to get her breath back, feeling warm and relaxed as she rests for a moment, slumped back against the chair cushions, legs still outstretched and draped over Jean’s shoulders on either side of his head.

Jean looks absolutely _wrecked_. Lips red and used-looking, his face absolutely covered in her wetness, hair mussed from her fingers and red flush creeping all the way down to his collarbones.

Even sated and relaxed like this, Mikasa loves the way Jean makes her feel like she owns him, like no matter what heady state she may be in she still has such absolute control.

Mikasa licks her lip, breathing out a soft, approving sigh and sitting up to look at Jean properly.

She reaches out, runs the pads of two of her fingers through the slickness along his jawline. She continues to drag them up over some of the untouched skin of his right jawbone, smearing it further. Jean’s breath is ragged.

“Love seeing you like this,” she breathes, taking in the sight of his heaving chest and the dark damp patch on his boxer briefs. “You like me using you to get off?”

A shudder runs through Jean and he whines.

“Love- L-love it, Mistress, love it so much.” He’s breathless and his words are still slurred together and delirious sounding and there’s almost nothing she loves as much in this world than reducing Jean to _this_ \- and by taking her own pleasure from him alone.

“You were such a good boy. My good pretty boy.” Mikasa notices he’s trembling the slightest bit, his muscles tensed. She slides her thumb from where it was tracing the corner of his mouth past his lips. “Want to come, pretty thing?”

She can’t fight the small smile as she sees Jean’s cock jerk in his boxers briefs at the words.

“On'y-” Jean starts to speak but seems to remember her thumb is still pressed into his mouth, steadfastly in the way of his tongue. She doesn’t make any move to shift or remove it and after a moment Jean realizes as much, dragging in another breath to try again. “Only i’ ‘ou ‘ive-”

Mikasa gives a low chuckle and takes pity on Jean, sliding her thumb out of his mouth to let him speak. To be fair, he is already having a tough enough time forming words without a physical obstacle. Jean swallows before speaking once more.

“Only… if you give… permission, Miss,” he pants, the nodding of his head coming out more like jerky bobbing.

Mikasa licks her lips at the pliancy, at the obedience thrumming through every fiber of Jean’s body. The only acknowledgement she gives to Jean’s answer is an approving quirk of her lips as she glances around beside herself in the chair. She plucks her soaked panties from where she’d discarded them across the armrest and gathers them into a ball of fabric between her palms.

“Open.”

And here she thought Jean couldn’t look any more fucked out and desperate than he already did.

Jean drops his jaw instantly at the words and Mikasa pushes the ball of fabric into his mouth―over his tongue.

Jean groans and Mikasa knows he’s tasting her again on the fabric and the sound comes through muffled and perfect. Mikasa slides her fingers once again up into his hair and gently pulls his head down so he’s leaning, head resting beside her hip bone against her lower stomach. His hair is soft and his breath hot.

He's so warm and pliant and thrummingly _alive_ there against her.

“Go ahead,” she says and a shudder runs through Jean that she can feel beneath her fingers as she adds. “Don’t take them off.”

Jean swallows thickly, nodding feverishly against her stomach as he releases the grip keeping his arms locked behind him and slides his hand down across his stomach.

From this angle, Mikasa can’t see much―mostly the broad stretch of Jean’s shoulders and back moving as he breathes. But she can see the movement, the flexing of muscles in his arms and notices that even though she’s given him permission, Jean is moving slowly, his hand trembling as it makes its way beneath the waistband.

Mikasa knows when he starts stroking himself because Jean lets out a broken groan against her skin. And it’s fantastic that every breath, every moan of pleasure escapes muffled by the fabric of her panties, each sound reminding Jean who his pleasure belongs to.

He strokes his cock in quick, frantic motions, leaning with his head pressed against the softness of Mikasa’s hip, her fingers in his hair. Jean trembles and jerks with it, letting out these desperate, high whines, soft and breathy and vulnerable and Mikasa adores them because they too, are hers to take, to have, to own.

Jean comes like that with a hitch in his inhale and whine against her skin like he can’t breathe properly. And Mikasa keeps stroking his hair tenderly and telling Jean that he’s good, that he’s so good for her…

He twists to gaze up at her with glassy eyes, sweat plastering his bangs to his forehead, lips parted and face flushed.

Mikasa leans down and kisses Jean open mouthed, filthy and owning, her tongue licking against the damp fabric there with Jean giving out wrecked little keens against the motions. When she pulls back, Mikasa catches some of the fabric between her teeth drags the soaked panties back with her. She absolutely _adores_ the way Jean whimpers and starts to follow the motion with the cant of his torso before he catches himself and stills.

Mikasa tugs the fabric from between her teeth and grins down at Jean, lecherous and dark and in this moment Mikasa feels like she could command the very laws of physics to bend to her will. And Jean… Jean―beautiful and fucked out, hair wild and face flushed with his hand still beneath his waistband and cum soaking his boxer briefs and spattered up his chest―looks up at her like she could do all of it. Anything. Everything and more.

 

 

 

 

“Need anything else besides that?” Mikasa asks, grabbing the water bottle from the bedside table.

It’s always endearing, she thinks, the way Jean curls up sleepily like a cat with his head in her lap after scenes. She nudges Jean’s shoulder a bit and Jean just hums sleepily in response. She chuckles.

“Come on, love. Sit up just a little and drink something.” Jean lets out a grumble that Mikasa can’t discern whether or not was supposed to come out as words, but lets Mikasa ease him up to a passable approximation of a sitting position and press the water bottle into his hands.

Jean takes a long drink, letting out a pleased hum as he tips the bottle upwards, his eyes never opening. Mikasa strokes his back with her free hand, shaking her head a little in amused exasperation. And yet at the same time something warm and so overwhelmingly affectionate blooms in her chest like the petals of a flower unfurling in the sunlight as she looks at Jean.

He finally swallows the last gulp of water and pulls off, taking a deep breath.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Jean still doesn’t open his eyes, but extends the water bottle out in her direction. She rolls her eyes and takes it from him, hand still sliding up and down the length of his back.

“You’re welcome,” she replies fondly before adding with a bit of a snort. “You can lay back down, sleepy thing.”

Jean flashes an almost dopey grin in her direction before curling back up with his head snuggling into her lap. Mikasa moves her hand up from his back to his hair, stroking through it while her other takes over sliding wide and warm along his spine. She feels the muscles of his back expand and contract with every breath.

“You were so perfect,” she murmurs, gazing down adoringly at the way the warm light catches in the golden hair at the top of his head, at the way his steady breathing moves the smooth expanse of skin over his back. “Made me so happy, did everything I asked so well.”

Jean sighs happily and she feels the warmth of the breath carrying it fan across her thigh.

Mikasa used to find it strange how alike Jean’s aftercare was to his submission but that, like everything else about him, made sense after understanding him. Mikasa was used to submissives who needed the opposite of what they got in scenes in aftercare, but again, Jean wasn’t other submissives.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you.” Mikasa says softly, fingers scratching though Jean’s hair, then pauses for a moment as she gazes at Jean’s bare body where he hadn’t had the energy to pull anything on. He makes a tired questioning sound at the interruption in her movements. “Just wondering if you wanted the blankets. So you don’t get cold.” She explains.

Jean doesn’t reply. In fact, he’s silent for so long Mikasa’s begun to think he’s fallen asleep on her before he speaks softly.

“Mm… yeah. Think so. Probably get cold soon.”

Mikasa smiles, leaning over him a bit to drag the comforter up the bed and tuck it around the curved form of Jean’s body. He’s probably still warm from endorphins, she thinks, resuming the motion of her hand on his back over top of the covers.

Jean gives another of his deep, contented sighs and that blossom in Mikasa’s chest surges at the sound, at the way Jean nuzzles his face against her like all is right with the world. And at that she can’t resist leaning down and kissing him softly―pressing her lips to the hair above his ear, to the crown of his head, folding herself nearly in half so she can reach her lips to his forehead and cheek.

She rests her forehead against the side of his head for a moment, breathing into his hair, smelling his sweat and the faint traces of his shampoo.

“You are so precious, my love,” Mikasa whispers, stirring the wisps of hair beneath her lips with the words. “You mean the world to me.”

“You…” Jean starts and the reply is unexpected, the word breathed and so quiet Mikasa thinks she’d have to strain to hear it if she weren’t this close to his lips. “You _are_ the world to me. Sometimes.”

And Mikasa’s breath sticks in her chest at Jean’s quiet admission. Because she can suddenly feel the roots of that beautiful growing thing within her in every extremity, reaching through her like it is her veins or her bones―like it sometimes pumps warmth and vitality through her or sometimes holds her up.

And Jean's soft “ _sometimes_ ” doesn’t disappoint her or detract at all from his sentiment. Because Mikasa understands the word's place there among the others. That "sometimes" is what Jean feels but also what Mikasa needs. Other people might want or need the Jeans in their life to see them as their world full-stop, but that’s not how the two of them do this thing together.

Mikasa is overwhelmed by the ways Jean lets her in.

Like the first warm day of spring has just arrived after months of cold and snow and Jean is running through every room in the house like he can’t get the windows open wide fast enough, uncaring for the state of his house or what the spring breeze will find there past his every windowsill.

Mikasa plants another soft, lingering kiss to Jean’s hair and strokes over the same spot with her fingertips, gentle and adoring.

“Rest now, love,” Mikasa whispers, even though the slow, even rising and falling of his form beneath the covers tells her he’s already asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!  
>   
> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)


End file.
